The sun became more and more powerful as it ascended towards the meridian, and was reflected with effulgent intensity from the mirror-surface of the river. As we bent over the side and looked far down into the deep vault reflected from above, and saw our gallant little yacht, with her white sails and dark hull, suspended with even minute tracery over it, we could almost imagine ourselves with the Ancient Mariner, “in a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”—The white sandbanks quivered and palpitated in the sultry glare, and the atmosphere of the adjoining swamps hung over them in a light blue vapour; the deadly miasma, their usual covering, dissipated in the fervent heat; while the silence was unbroken, save by the occasional scream of the gull, as it wheeled about in pursuit of its prey, or the quick alarmed cry of the kingfisher, hastily leaving some dead branch upon the shore to wing its way farther from the object of its terror. The black boy, in perfect negro elysium, lay stretched fast asleep, with his arm resting upon one of the dogs, in the blazing sun on the forecastle, while we ourselves, reclined upon the cushions, with our refreshments before us, indolently puffed our cigars under the awning, Old Kennedy, perched upon the taffrail, coxswain fashion, with the tiller between his legs. While thus enjoying ourselves, like true disciples of Epicurus, the guitar was taken from its case in the cabin, and accompanied by the rich tones of Walter Lee: “Here’s a health to thee, Mary,” in compliment to our kind hostess, swept over the still surface of the river, till, dissipated in the distance, and anon the “Wild Huntsman,” and “Here’s a health to all good lassies,” shouted at the pitch of three deep bass voices, bounded over the banks, penetrating the deep forest, causing the wild game to spring from their coverts in consternation at such unusual disturbance of its noontide stillness. “We bade dull care be gone, and daft the time away.” Old Kennedy, seated at the tiller, his grey hair smoothed down on one side, and almost falling into his eyes, his cheek distended with a huge quid of tobacco, which gave an habitual drag to a mouth whose expression indicated surly honesty and resolution, was a perfect portrait of many an old quartermaster, still in the service; while his scrupulously clean shirt, with its blue collar open at the neck, discovering a rugged throat, encircled by a ring of grey hairs, and his white canvass trowsers, as tight at the hips as they were egregiously large at the ancles, indicated the rig in which he had turned up, for the last thirty years, to Sunday muster. The old seaman had seen a great deal of service, having entered the navy at the opening of the difficulties with the Barbary powers, and had been engaged in several of the signal naval actions which followed in the subsequent war with Great Britain. Previous to that time, he had been in the employ of Tom’s father, who was